Apoapsis
by Queerasil
Summary: Apoapsis – (astronomy) the point in an orbit farthest from the body being orbited. When Sherlock disappears, John has no choice but to step into the detective's shoes and investigate. (Johnlock.)
1. Come And See

**Notes: **

**I want this fic to explore the co-dependent aspects of S/J's relationship. I want to showcase how they really, truly, ****_need_****each other. How John is more than just the skull on the mantelpiece, and how Sherlock is more than just a 'friend'. I want to show how they Sherlock really holds John together and keeps him from falling apart.**

**6 chapters total, beta'd and completed. I have a sequel planned. :)**

**I am so sorry.**

**Please enjoy!**

…

1

John came home Sunday evening to find Sherlock absent from his usual seat by the fire.

"Sherlock!" John called, walking back to the man's bedroom and knocking on the door. No answer. John opened it just a crack and saw Sherlock's bed: made and empty. "Huh."

John tried to put the matter out of his mind as he put the groceries away. He couldn't help noticing Sherlock's coat was still on the hook, and it was rather a cold night out.

John thought it was odd, that's all.

When John left for Tesco, Sherlock had been sitting frozen in the chair, eyes shut, hands clasped below his chin, clearly deeply focused on something. He didn't look like he was ready to go bounding off anywhere.

Of course, it wasn't unusual for the detective to go bolting off without any warning. He was _Sherlock Holmes_, after all.

_Nothing unusual about this, _John reassured himself. He took a few calming breaths and made himself a cup of tea. Every few seconds, he'd hear a faint noise like a car passing outside and turn his head, thinking Sherlock had returned home.

He rubbed his eyes. _This is just getting ridiculous. _Grabbing his phone, John sent a quick text out to his flatmate.

_Where are you? J_

Sitting in the chair, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against his teacup, he waited for a response. None came. Instead, he heard the familiar buzzing sound of Sherlock's ringtone.

"Shit." John reached for Sherlock's chair; his flatmate's phone was squished between the cushions. "Great," he sighed. "Absolutely splendid."

John took Sherlock's phone and flipped through it, looking for some evidence as to where his friend went. He found a series of texts sent less than 30-minutes ago from an blocked number.

_Hyde Park. Got something that might grab your attention._

**Oh, god. Is that a kidnapping pun? 'Grab my attention'? SH**

_Come and see._

**Why? SH**

_Come. And. See. _

And overwhelming sense of dread pooled in John's stomach. John pushed the feeling down, grabbing his coat and dashing out of the flat towards Hyde park.

As the taxi raced towards the park, John's mind buzzed with ideas.

_Moriarty? No. Moriarty's dead. Moriarty's dead and gone. Could be some of his web, but Sherlock got rid of all of them… Unless, of course, he misses something. _John shook his head, dismissing the thought. _There's got to be something else. There has to be. There must be a reason he left, because Sherlock wouldn't just take off, not without me… Not without me. _

The cab pulled up at Hyde park and John threw a few notes at the driver. He opened the door, stumbling out onto the street. He began walking through the park, calling Sherlock's name frantically.

John must've walked through Hyde park a dozen times before he collapsed onto a bench, exhausted. His throat was sore from yelling, and his leg was starting to ache. _Psychosomatic, my ass, _he thought.

It was an oddly peaceful night. Strange that something so disturbing should be happening on the one quiet day they'd had. Cases had been relatively dull for the last few weeks, and John had taken to entertaining Sherlock with puzzles of his own creation. Sherlock always solved them, of course, but it kept them occupied.

A new wave of panic flooded through John. What if Sherlock was hurt, or injured, or in pain? What if he needed help and he was alone? John remembered treating patients in Afghanistan who had wandered off base into the desert. On the off chance they made it back, they were always either emaciated, severely injured, or delirious. He didn't know if he could stand seeing Sherlock like that.

John took a deep breath, pushing the unpleasant feelings down again and dialing Lestrade.

John waited, impatiently tapping his foot against the ground as the phone ringed out. Finally, a weary Lestrade answered on the other end of the line.

"Hey, John, what –"

"Sherlock's gone missing. He left his coat and his phone at the flat and went off to find some mysterious person in Hyde park. I'm there now, and I've searched for him, and I can't find him, and –"

"John, John, John – calm down. It's okay. I'll send a few officers down there now. Don't worry about anything, okay? Sherlock does this all the time. It doesn't mean… It doesn't mean anything's wrong."

John knew that. He really did. But still… "I know that, really. Just…"

Lestrade yawned. "I've sent Donovan and Anderson down. Unless, of course, you've got complaints."

"No. No, it's fine." Right now, John was so desperate he would probably be willing to take help from Moriarty. "Thanks."

"No problem. He'll be alright, John."

John sighed, nodding. "I know."

Actually, he wasn't so sure.


	2. Five Days

Sally and Anderson arrived within the next few minutes. They both looked tired, and generally upset. John tried to push his feelings of anger for Sally aside as he showed her the texts on Sherlock's phone.

"Sounds just like 'im to me," she said, turning to Anderson. "Remember that time he took off after that child killer? He didn't come back for three days."

_That must've been before I met him, _John thought. "Did he catch the guy?"

Sally shook her head. "No. But he went on about it for weeks and weeks. Couldn't get him to shut up, could we? Kept going on about the socks."

John raised an eyebrow, and Anderson sighed. "All the victims were wearing enclosed shoes with no socks. He kept talking about how the kidnapper must be keeping the socks as souvenirs. We checked it out, of course, but there was nothing. Case is still closed."

John nodded, feeling an odd mixture of relief and panic. "So he does this, then? Disappears without a word?"

They both nodded. "Sounds about right," Andersons said. "We can keep looking, if you want, but I don't think we'll find anything."

John imagined that if Sherlock was there he would say something along the lines of, "There's always something to find," and then proceed to find something vitally important and solve the crime. John almost smiled at the thought. "Just one more lap around the park? Just to make sure?"

Sally scoffed, walking off towards the other end of the park screaming, "Freak!" Anderson followed reluctantly.

John supposed they had a point. Sherlock had done this dozens of times before. He was like that, really. But still, there were those ominous text from that blocked number.

John took out Sherlock's phone again, and read the text over and over again until it was cemented into his brain. Switching his brain into 'Sherlock-Mode', John analyzed the text.

"Hyde Park. Got something that might grab your attention."

_''__Grab your attention'. Grab your attention. Your attention. So… Whoever sent the text meant it to be directed specifically for Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to come.'_

"Oh, god. Is that a kidnapping pun? 'Grab my attention'? SH"

_'__So, Sherlock probably knows who the text is from, because he knows it was a pun. That means it has to have been a case he dealt with before. Obviously an unsolved case, so… Nothing would send Sherlock running faster than an unsolved case.'_

"Come and see."

_'__The texter wants Sherlock specifically. He wants him to come and see. The only reason he'd do that is if he wanted Sherlock.'_

An indescribable horror dawned on John. Sherlock had dozen, probably even hundreds, of enemies who hated him. It seemed this enemy in particular was a little too angry.

"Why? SH"

_'__He probably knows why. He should've told me. Dammit! He should've told me!'_

"Come. And. See."

_'__Sherlock could never resist a puzzle. Of course he went to see, and now look what's bloody happened to him.'_

John's brained switched into overdrive as he chased after Sally and Anderson.

"Sally!" He yelled as he approached them. Sally looked positively alarmed to see him. "Tell me everything you can about that sock kidnapper case!"

Sally raised an eyebrow. "There's not much. Five victims, five years ago. Kids ages five to ten kidnapped. No ransom or demands given. They just disappeared. They're found exactly a five days after they disappear, laid out on top of graves; killed by morphine overdose."

John was momentarily lost for words. Sally's words formed a powerful and gruesome image in his mind; damn near shaking him to his very core with terror. He swallowed thickly before he spoke. "Where do these victim's usually disappear from."

Sally bit her lip. Her eyes were focused firmly on the ground. "Parks."

John felt his stomach drop. "Oh my god," he heard himself whisper, his mind still racing to catch up with the rest of his body. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Sally, I need the case file."

She nodded, suddenly looking very pale. Anderson looked almost sick to his stomach. "Whatever you need," he said.

John went back to the Yard and spent the rest of the night sifting through the casefile with Sally and Anderson. Sadly, there isn't much to go on. Just five bodies of five very unfortunate children.

The killer, aptly nicknamed 'The Quiet One' is profiled to be a white male, mid to late 30s, with mother issues, who hates children. The criminal psychologist's report is difficult to read because _someone _(obviously Sherlock) had scribbled all in the margins.

Sherlock disagreed completely with the psychologist. According to him, the killer was someone who felt protective over children and wanted to keep them safe by any means necessary. He noted how the bodies had all been cared after, and how there was not a hair or a fiber out of place. Sherlock also suspected the killer might have had some severe form of OCD coupled with a childhood trauma.

John couldn't help agreeing with Sherlock's opinions, but then again, they were Sherlock's. Sherlock could probably say the killer was a purple alien and John would still agree.

John sighed, putting down the casefile and rubbing his eyes. He checked his watch and found it was early morning. He had clinic in two-hours, but he obvious wasn't going. There were more important things right now than sniffles and coughs.

_One day down, four days to go, _John thought grimly.


	3. Four Days

3

_Four Days_

Lestrade held a briefing of the situation at noon. John was tired and barely conscious, but what he heard was nothing new. Sherlock was missing, and they had a possibly reemergence of a child killer on their hands. Sherlock would've been thrilled, if he was there.

After the meeting, John went outside, attempting to get some fresh air. He was surprised to find a very exhausted Mycroft waiting for him just outside the Yard's front door.

"John," the older man says, reaching out his hand to shake. John's glared at him, and arm stayed limp at his side. "Apologies. Formalities." Mycroft smiled, but it was obviously a 'formality'. "Can I buy you some coffee?"

John sighed wearily and followed Mycroft to the café. Cafés and Mycroft always seemed to end in bad news.

John ordered tea, and Mycroft ordered black coffee. They sat outside in the blatantly bright sun. The silence between them was palpable and thick, full of tension. Finally, Mycroft coughed. "I know you're concerned about him, John." The tone of his voice was casual, almost flippant.

"And you're not?" John could hardly believe that. Mycroft could make anything into a big deal, and John was sure the man would be willing to start a war to get his brother back.

"I know my brother. I've known him a long time. He always does this. I really don't see what all the fuss is about."

"What –" John paused. Mycroft was stirring his coffee absentmindedly. John was struck by the oddness of it all. "Why? Your brother might have gotten kidnapped by a serial killer, and you're fine with it?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I checked the CCTV footage last night. 20:25, Sherlock leaves your flat. 20:36, he arrives at Hyde Park. 20:52, he leave Hyde Park – quite of his own free will."

"Ah, I see." John bit his lip, fighting back the urge to punch Mycroft. "And where did he go after that?"

Mycroft smirked. "You know my brother, John. You know his habits, his eccentricities, his quirks; possibly even better than I do. Where do you think he would go?"

_Bart's. His home away from home. _John stood up suddenly and reached out to shake Mycroft's hand. The other man took it reluctantly. "Thanks," John said before sprinting off to hail a cab.

When John opened the door to the morgue, Molly was opening up the stomach of a rather bloated corpse. "John!" she said in surprise. There was the sound of clattering metal as she accidentally knocked the scalpel to the ground. "Woops! Can you get that?"

John bent down, grabbed the blood scalpel and handed it to her. "I need to take to you about Sherlock," he said quickly. "Have you seen him?"

Molly shook her head. She was rather immersed in cutting open the corpse's lungs. "I've been busy."

"Too busy for Sherlock?"

Molly pursed her lips and gave him a look. "My life, unlike some people's, does not begin and end with Sherlock Holmes."

She had a point there. John nodded slowly. "Right… You've got a point there, but – Well, fact is, Sherlock's gone missing, and I was wondering if you'd seen him?"

"No." Molly continued her examination of the man's lungs with frightening concentration. "Haven't seen him in days."

John stood there, waiting for her to say something else. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for, but it was something.

Molly sighed and looked at him. "John, what do you want me to say? 'Oh, that's right, I forgot. He's hiding over there in the closet.'? I haven't seen him."

John nodded curtly. "Thanks," he said stiffly. "If you see him, tell me?"

Molly gave him a thumbs up. John started to walk towards the door before her voice stopped him. "John, do you want my opinion?"

"Yes." John was eager anything, any clue that might help him find his friend.

Molly said plainly, "I think he's faking it."

John's hopes fell. "What?"

"I don't think he's actually missing. Maybe he's just messing with you?"

"Molly, are you messing with me? Or do you know where he is? Are you trying to tell me something?"

Molly shook her head three times. "It just sounds like something he would do, that's all." She smiled. "I'm sure he's safe, though."

John nodded. He didn't believe her theory for a second. As calmly as he could, he said, "Thanks for your help." John turned and walked out the door.


End file.
